


who caught and sang the sun in flight

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, c'è solo un capitano, retirement fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 09:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12407697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: it's not as though you've never considered it, leaving, playing somewhere else, living some other version of this life. but each time, you've consoled yourself with eventually, eventually.eventually arrives earlier than you expect.





	who caught and sang the sun in flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ballpoint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/gifts).



> dearest recipient, i hope you enjoy!

December, 2016

 

The path to the Piazza Venezia does its best to dazzle you, delicate lights entangled in the evergreen branches. It's well-worn and familiar, traversed over decades, but somehow your throat forgets, tightens all the time. Chanel traipses ahead, stops at the caramels and blinks up expectantly at you. Your chuckle is soft and wry, but you never have it in you to say no to someone you love.

You end buying extra for your parents, and Ilary tucks her hand into your elbow. The wind carries the sweet, sharp promise of winter, and somewhere, between the click of this step and the next, it snaps shut like the hinges of a trap.

It filters into you in stages, like you’re watching yourself drown and unable to move your limbs. By the time you step into your parents' house, you take one last deep gulp and sink into it.

The threshold to the kitchen is a door between time. One moment, there are wrinkles hooking at the curve of your mouth, and the next, you are a child again.

Your mother smiles at the dough in her hand as much at you, tilts her head for the kiss. You oblige, linger for a moment because she smells of nutmeg and flour and sugar, as ever, as always.

“Get the rolling pin,” she orders. You obey, and she steps aside, already washing her hands before you realize she means for you to do something.

“Have you forgotten already?” she teases, wiping water on a blue towel fraying at the ends. No matter how many new, expensive ones you sneak into the house, she still refuses to throw that one away.

“I remember,” you grumble, feeling the petulance curl just under your tongue. It takes a few rolls, but the thick dough flattens beneath the pressure of your hands. Your mother rests her chin in her hands, watches you with a half-hidden smile.

“Acceptable?”

“Passable,” she allows, before pointing with her chin. “Use the tree shapes.”

You press down until the metal slices a tree into existence, lay them out on the parchment-lined baking sheet. Laughter spills over from the next room in varying octaves of delight. Adoration sweeps into you, momentarily overwhelmed and grateful for all the things you have. _Have had_.

“Mama,” you whisper, then make yourself glance up to meet her eyes.

You idly wonder if you should be surprised by the thin sparkle of tear. You aren’t by the fact that she knows what you mean to say even before you do.

Your hands come to a rest beside the tray, and she reaches across the island, curls her own around yours. The lump in your throat traps the words beneath: that you would never have gotten here without her. You would not be you had she not been her. If it wouldn’t be a paltry shadow to what she deserves, you would say thank you. Instead, you turn your hands, fold them around hers. You squeeze, then hold on.

All she asks is, “Are you sure?”

 _No_ , you think. The heart is a muscle without a voice, thumping stubbornly along while the others weaken with the days. If the rest of your body listened to it, you would stay forever.

It wouldn’t be so hard, to carve out another position to slot yourself into. For every club you turned down, you found a new place on the pitch to play. _I am needed here_ , you promised them, the rolling, thunderous rows of Roman red in the stands. Flitting until you had swallowed each part of the whole.

“If I stay any longer, I’ll have to become goalkeeper.”

She snorts, an inelegant sound that adds to the charm of her pristine appearance, and pats your hands.

“Not with these hands, darling.”

“Such faith,” you scoff, but slide across, draw her hands up to press your lips to her knuckles. Impossibly, you want to fold yourself up and tuck yourself into her chest, feel the solid line of her shove you backwards into the past. You think there is nothing you wouldn’t do to start again, the vastness of the future spread open and inviting before you.

“Have you told them yet?”

You’re not sure if she means the board, the team, or Ilary and your kids, but you shake your head.

“I wanted...it should be us here, again, at the end.”

Just as it was in the beginning. Your mother’s hands on her hips as she paced the floor, muttering to herself about the men from Milan with their offer. The undeserving men in their gaudy suits, whom she refused to even invite inside the house. Your chin resting on the balustrade as she unequivocally sent them off, announcing that no son of hers would ever betray his city like that. The decision already made before she remembered you were there, turned to ask your opinion.

To this day, you only remember two things: one, that you shrugged your shoulders and agreed. Two, that you had loved your mother since birth, but it was in that moment that you learned to respect her.

Her watery chuckle brings you back, her hand reaching up to touch your cheek.

“Ever the romantic, Fran.”

“I am what you made me, Mama.”

She rests her hand on your shoulder and leans in, the top of her head fitting just under your chin. You close your eyes, and tip over into the future.

~

_November, 1996_

" _Vaffanculo_!"

It explodes out of you, the red of the lockers, the white of your towel swimming before your fury. You want to punch a wall, or a face, or the whole world. You want to feel the skin of your knuckles go taut. You want to feel something besides the useless leaching into your bones, the helplessness of insignificance.    
  
You shove everything but your wallet back into the locker, glad for the hard slam of the door, the shaking of the foundation. Your feet run because they can, lead you out of Trigoria and along the winding cobblestones, into half-hidden nooks of memory. Anywhere but this place with the constant reminder of cold benches and the counting down of minutes until you were needed.  
  
You chase a shadow, a phantom feeling you don't know the shape of except by its absence.

Impassioned shouting refracts around the corner, fills your head even before you turn.  They're scrawnier than you were at their age, but they don't seem to know it, shoving each other full-strength to get to the ball.

One glances over at you, in your training sweatshirt that you’ve taken to living in. The rest pay you no mind, don’t stop fighting just for your uninvited presence. But the one who saw raises an eyebrow in challenge, and well, Fiorella’s son never was one to turn down a challenge.

The challenger knocks the ball of a kid in a blue tee, and you slip it away from him before you’ve released your next exhale.

There’s a brief uproar, a mild ruckus, until the kid gives as good as he got, nearly knocks you to your feet in his fervor. It’s not acceptance of you that gets the others to fall back in, but the game itself. Anything for football. The ball flies in a perfect arch above your head and you dip your head down, know it will land perfectly at the top notch of your spine. A whoop of delight accompanies it, and you laugh, feel the tension roll down your body with the ball.

Some other kid with hair that falls into his eyes slips it away with the side of his foot, races towards the makeshift goal, and it’s on again. Your body falling into sync with the ebb and flow of the game, the particular way the ball hobbles along the bricks, the familiar _thwap_ as it knocks against the side of a building. The way the cheers echo off the cobblestones and the scent of a past era as someone hangs a sheet on the railing to dry. The ball finds its way to your feet again like a magnet, and you feel lighter than you have in months, since Giuseppe announced his departure.

You sprint forward, and you can tell the second it leaves your boot exactly where it will land in goal. It sings through your skin, a savage, graceless joy, jolts you awake with realization. The ball at your feet, and a clear line between yourself to goal. In the end, that’s all it is. That’s all that matters.

By the time you make it home, the night above Rome hangs heavy with the promise of rain. In the morning, you will tell your mother your decision. If you can find the right words, you are convinced she will understand...eventually. You’re halfway through the door before you hear the voices, standing in the middle of the kitchen before you recognize them.

It never stops surprising you, how diminutive he is in reality. In the soft light of the kitchen, wearing just a sweater, he looks more like someone’s kindly grandfather than one of the most powerful men in Rome. He offers you a nod in greeting, takes a sip from the finely patterned china your mother breaks out for special occasions. She bites into a biscotti, watches your face for a reaction as though she can tell what you’re thinking. You wouldn’t put it past her.

“I wanted to speak to you, Francesco,” Franco Sensi announces across the island. The sweat on the back of your neck drips drops into the mouth of your sweatshirt. He glances sidelong at your mother, who stares straight back at him defiantly, takes another bite of her biscotti.

“To you all,” he adds a beat later.

“Go clean up, Fran. I’m sure Signore Sensi wouldn’t mind a few moments to finish his tea.” She doesn’t bother to ask him, and you barely look at him as you sneak out.

In the shower, you square your shoulders and remind yourself of your decision. You wouldn’t be the first player to go elsewhere for a chance at success. Rome would always be home, but it wasn’t the end all, be all of football. Everywhere was the same with a ball at your feet, you try to convince yourself, the shampoo dripping into your eyes. You wash it out, then dress methodically, the words heavy and dry like sawdust on your tongue. They’re still both in the kitchen when you return, but your mother’s arguing with Signore Sensi, who seems to be very intent on washing out the china himself.

“Guests don’t do the washing,” she sputters, fighting her instincts to reach out and take it out of his hands.

“Please, I’m not a guest. I may not be family yet, but I’m long past formalities.”

You watch as she smiles despite herself, leaning back with a blue kitchen towel in her hands. It’s the closest anyone’s ever gotten to besting her in an argument. Signore Sensi finishes washing the cup carefully, hands it over to her to dry.

The familiarity of it aches through you, makes you nearly chuckle wryly. You realize then what an absolute fool you’ve been. There are many men in football, you have seen them come and go. But you can count on a single hand the number that would handwash a cup in your kitchen in the dying light of day.

There were other clubs in the world, other stadiums that may learn to sing your name. There were other streets in other cities that would feel very nearly the same beneath your feet, other homes to fill up with your very own life.

But there was only one family, and yours was in Rome. There was nowhere else to belong but here.

 

~

March, 2017

 

You show up on his doorstep with a bag and a text you sent 30 minutes ago when you landed.

_Are you awake?_

In fairness, the picture of his feet on the coffee table with a glass of wine was probably as close to an invitation you were likely to get. You knock politely the first two times, and then bang on the door like an insolent child.

“I don’t want any!” he shouts through the wood.

“I’m not selling any!” you holler back.

You’ve won a World Cup between you two, and yet.

He opens the door halfway, leaning lazily against it with half his signature frown. His hair’s longer than you remember, the darkness beneath his eyes deeper, but the expression in them is the same.

“Did you bring me a gift?” he demands to know.

You stare at him, then rummage through your bag, grab the half-eaten Toblerone bar and thrust it into his hand.

“As charming as ever, Francesco.”

“As welcoming as ever, Andrea.”

He lets you in anyway.

In the morning, you stare blearily at his stainless steel espresso machine, which he operates with more ease than you expected. You’re pouring more sugar than you know is allowed on your diet plan when he interrupts.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re here?”

You stare at the soothing spin of thick black coffee, focused on the slow scrape of the spoon against the edges. Somehow the answer doesn’t miraculously appear, so you just shrug.

“Do you want to tell me what you plan to do while you’re here, besides gain twenty pounds?”

He’s leaning back against the fridge, his ratty sleepshirt rising up over his hipbone. You wonder what it is about him that Daniele...and then stop wondering altogether.

“I wanted to be away, for a little bit.”

 _I wanted to be anywhere but Rome, with anyone who wasn’t Roman_ , is the real answer. It’s not an insult, but you’re sure Andrea would take it as one.

You chug the shot down in one go, then hold the cup out for more. He stares at the cup, then up at you, like he’s considering refusing. Then he shakes his head, annoyed at the fact that he can never seem to. You scrape a hand over your face as much to hide the smile as to wake yourself up.

Three hours later, you are no longer smiling. Instead, you’re glaring at the back of Andrea’s head, hoping it’ll explode out of the sheer power of your hate. You think you’ve done at least 85 sit-ups, but the bright-eyed, brawny trainer informs you cheerfully you're on 11. Like you’re going to believe anyone that young knows how to count.

Andrea makes you walk home afterward, and it takes everything in your body not to shove him directly into traffic. But he’s mercifully silent, lets you fill your aching lungs with the crisp night air. The sidewalks are jam-packed, the constant flow of people bumping into you in their haste, jostling you forward as much as your own two feet. Still, no one recognizes you, stops to pay their respects at the altar of your duty. No one here cares about you at all.

For the first time in a long week, you smile.

Back in his apartment, you gulp down a bottle of water greedily against his counter.

“Don’t lean, you’re still sweaty,” he complains. Naturally, you press the small of your back against the marble and he flings a dish towel at your head. You catch it in midair, then sigh, wipe your sweat off the surface before throwing it back at him. He looks disgusted at you, which feels just right.

It takes another two hours and half a bottle of wine on his terrace before he bangs his heel against the side of your feet. The noise you let out is haphazard, your body heavy now, saturated with the Malbec.

“Talk,” he demands.

You thumb the base of the wine glass, then look up at him.

“I’m retiring after this season.”

Outside of your family, somehow Andrea is the first person you have managed to say the words to aloud. Frankly, you’re handling it better than you did with Ilary, burying your face in her shoulder until you could speak again.

“Ahh.” He nods in acceptance, unsurprised, and you’d be insulted if your mind wasn’t already half-fuzzy. He swirls the last of the wine in his glass, and the lights from the balcony reflect in its depth, drags you back to packed nights in the Olimpico, the harshness of stadium brights glaring down at you. You blink, and you’re back in New York, Andrea’s face uncharacteristically soft.

He clears his throat before he asks.

“Have you told him?”

You shake your head, just once, then finish the last of what remains.

“Will you tell him?”

It’s a precise jab and you remember now, why you’re not friends, not really. He never bothers to pull his punches when he knows they’ll land on solid ground.

“Of course. I’m waiting to…”

Your words falter and you stare balefully down at the empty glass.

“I want a plan for what comes next before I tell him.”

You want him to understand that you wouldn’t do it on a whim, but maybe that’s all it was. The west winds sweeping you away for nothing more than a promise: you could go anywhere, you could be anyone. You could live all the lives you’d turned down partly to remain in his.

“I won’t tell him.”

“He’d still love me more, even if you did,” you remind haughtily, ignoring the way your hands curl inward by your side. You mean it as a joke, no matter how vicious the undercurrent sounds aloud. You insist.

He laughs, throaty and deep, head tipped back just slightly. His hair is somehow as thick as you remember, nearly blue against the night sky.

“Ever the same,” he sighs, turns back to meet your gaze. The way his mouth twitches tells you he’s torn between exasperation and fondness as he collects the glasses, leaves you to your silence. It should be grandiose and tragic, a lost king on a self-imposed exile. Mostly, you feel the stuttering, stumbling fear of a single misstep. The breath between the moment your foot rolls beneath the weight of its burden, and the next, when you understand the damage. You are trembling in the limbo between.

In the kitchen, Andrea unwraps a piece of chocolate, the gold foil crinkling on the marble countertop. You take the one he offers, smooth the wrinkles out afterward against the surface to give your hands something to do.

“Why me?”

You shrug.

“You know when to leave.”

A crooked twist of his mouth greets you before he answers.

“And you don’t.”

You shrug again.

“It’s a steeper learning curve for men like me.”

He lets out a puff of air that can only contextually be called a chuckle.

“There are few men like you. Most of the world is made up of men like me.” He tilts his head to the side.

Beneath the rich sweetness is an underlying bitterness. It coats your tongue, lasts long after the chocolate has melted away.

“Teach me,” you offer. _To be a man like you, for a while._

This time he does laugh, wry and lazy.

“It’s past your bedtime, old man.”

You step closer, enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne, citrus and smoke, something vaguely woodsy. From this angle, you can see the lines in stark relief, the places they’ve made a home in the expanse of his face. It’s almost comforting, knowing that he probably knows your face well enough to do the same.

He says nothing, breathing quiet and even, but you can feel the challenge in the way he keeps his hands inside his pockets. If someone takes the next step, it will not be him.

You stare at his face, and all you can see is who he isn’t.

He grins smugly, plants a hand in the center of your chest, and shoves. You curl your fingers around his wrist and squeeze, hard enough that you can feel the fine bones beneath skin. They jostle together beneath your grasp, and from close up, you wonder what’s so special about him. What Daniele can see in him that remains hidden from you. He stares at the back of your knuckles as he speaks.

“For such a simple-minded man, you sure do know how to complicate everything.”

You dig your thumb purposefully into the curl of bone to urge him to continue. He only shakes his head and carefully extricates his wrist.

“Go home, Fran.”

 _I can’t_ , you think, and step back.

 

~

_July, 2006_

 

Alessa buries his face in your shoulder and laughs, the sound reverberating along your skin. His head lifts, just enough for his bony chin to land on your chest, and he reaches down between you. You’re still sweat-soaked and disgustingly tacky from last round, but your body makes a valiant effort. A tiny kernel of disappointment accompanies the medal when he fishes it off the bedside table and drops it onto your chest. You’re not sure if it’s his or yours, find that you don’t particularly care. His grins hooks into you, awed and delighted, eyes rounder than the moon slipping in through the curtains.

“I can’t believe,” he whispers, like he’s telling you a secret. He shakes his head, then drops his forehead back against your shoulder. You skim your palm along the short scruff that’s replaced his hair. It’s strange, drags against your skin, but he presses a kiss against you and you can’t bring yourself to care for the rest.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t imagined it before. No one grew up with a football at their feet without their head halfway to the clouds. The moment pasted together from grainy glimpses on television screens, Romario and Dunga swept up in the swirl of celebration, and posters of Maradona lifting the trophy (ripped down soon enough). But more than them, you remembered the calm, resigned tones of commentators explaining in their polite Italian that victory was not meant for them. The feeling of almost, but not now, not yet.

The gold grows less cold over your heart, but you don’t feel the weight of it. Not yet. 

Alessa rolls over, not so far that your hand cannot follow the well-worn path along his skull.

“What comes next?” he asks, fiddling with the fabric around the medal.

You shrug, feel the discomfort ripple through your body, your hand falling away from his head. He grabs it before it hits the bed, guides it back to his hair. No matter how you tilt, you cannot see his face, which makes it easier.

“What comes next for you?” you offer, curling your hand around the back of his neck.

“I’m not the one who has an offer lined up from Real Madrid,” he taunts. You pinch his skin between your thumb and forefinger.

“Had. It’s too late for all that.”

He scoffs, wriggles up until his head’s level with yours on the pillow.

“Are you going to stare into my eyes and declare the world’s my oyster, Alessa?”

“Yes. Pour champagne onto it and slurp it up.”

You laugh full into his face and he presses close, taps his temple against yours. Lingers there, just the brush of his breath along your cheekbones.

“You came back from injury and won a World Cup in less than a year. If they wanted you then, they’ll want you again,” he whispers, softer than a caress.

You wave them away, shove his face back against the pillow before rolling halfway onto him.

“What do I care about Madrid?” you demand to know, meet his gaze unflinchingly.

“You could be a galáctico.”

“I don’t want to be,” you remind him. You have seen the lights burn bright above the Bernabéu, you have watched their stars glitter across the pitch, you have seen the twinkle of faces filling every seat in the stadium.

But what you remember is,

“They boo their galácticos as easily as they boo their legends at the Bernabéu.”

You could never belong at a team that didn’t know the difference.

“You could go somewhere else. There are other clubs. Even you must wonder.”

From anyone else, it might sound like damning praise, but Alessa looks at you like he’s genuinely curious.

You shrug again, biting on the inside of your lip as you stare at his collarbone.

“That’s what retirement is for.”

He scoffs at you.

“You’ll be old by then. Withered and gray. What will be left?”

The answer blooms in your throat like tangled wildflowers at the edge of the Coliseum, like storm clouds gathering above the Basilica. _You would not leave unless there was nothing left._

He opens his mouth again, and you cut him off before he finishes, bite at his bottom lip.

The soft acquiescence of his mouth shouldn’t draw out a swift, sudden pang, his limbs hanging loose by his side. The long line of his body offering itself up to you. You kiss him until you no longer feel the need to imagine all the things you could do.

“I couldn’t,” you whisper against the side of his mouth, and he nods. His hand lifting just to touch your shoulder.

“Me neither.”

Maybe this is why you keep ending up here, year after year, tournament after tournament. Two words between you two, but you understand the whole of him. Besides, you’ve seen the news, you know the implications. You know the inevitable ugliness that will accompany a word as dirty as _Calciopoli_.

What comes next will arrive before either of you are ready. But you can wedge the form of your body between now and tomorrow. You can give him this.

This time around, neither of you seem to be up for anything more than lazily grinding against one another, his mouth seeking out yours as your hands pin his against the bed. Swallowing down every time he says your name in a different tone, half-broken, on a moan, gasped just before he comes.

Eventually, Alessa forces himself up with a reluctant groan, and you make a noise of disapproval. But he only goes as far as the bathroom, stops long enough for a wet towel that he graciously flings onto your stomach. You haphazardly wipe at yourself, mean to throw it back at him but you freeze. You've seen him naked enough to know the lines of him by memory, but it’s his face that holds you still. The patient, wanting way he watches you, a knee pressing against the sheets.

He has never asked it of you, and you have never considered. But the way he looks at you now makes liars of you both.  
  
It’s raw, unapologetic, the way he climbs back onto the bed and looms above you. You lean up on an elbow to get close to him. With the other hand, you slide the medal over his head until it dangles between you two.  
  
"We're World Cup winners."  
  
Both of you repeating it like a mantra to ward off all the things you cannot say.  
  
"What do World Cup winners do?" you wonder aloud.  
  
He smiles, like he's figured you out, slides a hand up your arm. His fingertips resting just on the gladiator's face.  
  
"They go home."

 

~

June, 2017

 

The sunlight wakes you, streaming across your face in the wrong direction.

You are no longer in Rome.

You stretch your arms above your head until you hear the crack of bones settling into place. Outside the wide windows, the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean welcomes you warmly to the day. The crystalline blue water twinkles invitingly, catching the morning sun. Every inch of Bora Bora overflows with charm.

You frown at it, and burrow back underneath the covers.

Two hours later, you wake again to the smell of coffee drifting in from another room, find it enticement enough to wake. The bare wooden floors are sun-warmed to the touch, the open living room glowing in the early morning light.

You grab a hat on your way to the balcony, plop down with your legs dangling over the edge.

The first call you make is to Gigi, and by way of greeting, you offer,

“What do you want me to bring you back from Bora Bora?”

“Bring me back whatever old Roman relics they have lying around.”

You hang up on him, bite into the least decorated pastry in the hopes it won’t taste like a baked bouquet. It’s not bad, tropical and just a little tart, goes well with the rich black coffee they’ve left for you.

You suppose if a man is forced to ponder his mortality, there are worse ways to do it than this.

When the phone buzzes on the deck, you catch it just before it falls into the water.

“It’s past my bedtime,” he offers by way of explanation, and you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Mine too,” you concede, gulping down more coffee. He chuckles softly, and you can imagine him in bed, wearing some ratty t-shirt he should’ve thrown away by now.

“I like chocolate,” he allows a few moments later. “Don’t bring me back a tacky souvenir, I’m throwing that shit in the trash.”

You resolve to buy him the gaudiest thing you can find at the airport gift shop.

“We’ll see,” you answer noncommittally.

“What’s there to do in Bora Bora anyway?” Gigi wants to know, as though you have a clue.

“Nothing. That’s the whole point.”

He sighs on the other end of the line.

“Go home, Francesco.”

You sigh at him this time, take another bite of pastry. When you hunch forward, you can feel your belly going softly round.

“I’m going to London next. Then Madrid.”

“You’ve been to London before. And Madrid,” he reminds you.

“Yes, I’ve stared at their finest hotel room wallpaper, eaten at the best hotel dining rooms. There isn’t anything left for me to discover.”

He’s quiet for a moment and you finish off the rest of the breakfast in silence.

“When I retire, I’m going to eat a pound of carbonara naked in my living room.”

“Does Ilaria know of your grand plans?”

“She supports me in everything I do, despite myself.” Three years, and his voice still goes soft when he speaks of her.

“A saint.”

“How does Ilary feel about your international adventures?”

“She suffers me in everything I do, despite myself.” His laugh is throaty, a bit faint like he’s thrown his head back.

You hear a soft inhale before he speaks again.

“How does Daniele feel?”

You scratch an itch at the back of your neck that only just appeared, then shrug.

“He’s fine.”

You don’t tell Gigi that you haven’t been able to bring yourself to call him since you left Rome, and Gigi doesn’t ask.

“Are you?”

Sometimes you have to remind yourself that he’s two years younger than you when it feels as though he’s already a decade ahead.

“I’m not used to it. I don’t know what to make of myself.”

“Why can’t you make something of yourself in Rome?” he suggests.

You shake your head again.

“I wouldn’t have left unless I had nothing left to give.”

He makes some derisive noise in protest.

“You can coach. You can scout. You could be a brand ambassador. There are a dozen…”

You scoff at him in return.

“I’m not you, Gigi. I can…"

When you close your eyes, you can see a pitch perfectly, the exact dimensions, the movement of players racing towards goal. You can see the look in their eyes, you can feel the racing of your heart, you can feel the muscles of your body twisting and turning in sync.

But you can’t imagine the ball anywhere but waiting at your feet.

“I understand football, but only when I’m playing it.”

A soft hum sounds from his end, like he understands, or he’s trying. It’s the closest to comforting anyone’s been in a week.

“You’ll figure it out, I believe in that.”

“That’s very generous of you,” you tease, running a hand through your head. You tip your head back, close your eyes as the sunlight skims along your throat.

“That’s the way of you. You guide men to faith.”

“It’s not me, it’s Rome. It makes choices easier when everything has to be held up to such an impossible standard.”

“It’s the same thing, Fran.”

You shake your head, but you can barely get yourself to understand, much less someone else.

You’re both quiet for so long that you half-wonder if he’s fallen asleep on you.

“Call Daniele. It will take an open mind to figure it out, and between the two of you, you might just have one.”

“You’re loathsome and your carbonara is salty, Gianluigi.”

“You’re just jealous because I’ve always been more beautiful, Francesco.”

“Call him.”

You hang up on him again.

Whatever wisp of an answer you came searching for, you don’t find it in Bora Bora. The silence begins to wear down on you, the quiet swirl of your own thoughts, memories twisting your stomach into knots. You have never been a creature meant for solitude.

It takes two more days before you make it to London, and two more in the city before you follow Gigi’s advice.

You consider drinking the night away from the mini-bar when the storm that’s been threatening all day finally breaks. Within minutes, the humidity eases into soft curtains of rainfall, gets you out onto the balcony with a small bottle of whiskey. For a moment you stare at your phone, try to compose the words.

It takes long enough that the rain stops, puddles catching the glow of street lamps, people spilling back out the streets from under awnings. You leave the whiskey unopened and wander the streets, hands shoved into your pockets. It’s familiar in the way of all major cities, a hundred stories seamlessly floating through one another, couples drifting arm in arm as children with wide eyes explore their parameters. No one pays you much attention as you follow your feet.

Someone bumps you accidentally, and you turn into a side street to avoid them. Even from 15 feet away, even in another language, you would know those sounds. The thump-thump-thump as it bounces across pavement, the way it bangs into the side of a boot. The sounds of directions being shouted, then argued.

For a moment, you’re 20 years, hair falling down the back of your neck, stubborn and demanding of the future you deserve.

And then, you are not.

For another minute, you let yourself watch, their feet swift and sure over the rain-slicked street, the steady swirl of the ball slipping between them. A minute longer, until it aches through you, until you turn your back and find your way back to the hotel.

You don’t even bother to undress, flop onto the covers with a grumble and stare at the ceiling. He’s on your speed dial, so it only takes three clicks before you’re calling him.

“I thought you’d forgotten your phone at home,” he greets you with.

“I posted a picture to Instagram just yesterday.”

“I hate that bullshit,” he all but growls.

You grin up at the ceiling.

“I know. Part of why I do it. I’m trying to keep both of us young.

He makes a noise between a groan and a scoff, and you can almost feel him rolling his eyes at you. Fondness wells up inside you, at the way the particulars of his face are etched into your memory. You can conjure him up at any time if you only close your eyes.

“You’re the one who needs it, old man.”

“Maybe,” you accept, affection making you soft.

He exhales on the other end of the line, like the breath pushed out of his lungs.

“Are you back yet?”

“I’m in London.”

“What the fuck’s in London?” he demands gruffly.

You shrug because you’re not really sure.

“They love football here.”

“They love football everywhere, Checco. What the fuck’s in London?”

Moments like this, you understand exactly what makes him and Andrea well-suited to one another. Daniele hoards his kindness, dispensing it stodgily only when absolutely necessary.

“One day. That’s what I always told myself whenever I turned something down. One day. Eventually. After retirement. Once I do my duty to Rome, then I’ll see what else is out there.”

“What else is out there?” You might laugh at the even tone of the question another time.

“You’re infuriating, Daniele.”

“Stop being a sentimental fool, Francesco.”

“I’m allowed to ask myself what I want,” you object.

“What the fuck do you want then?” he charges.

“I want to play fucking football again!” you shout at him, banging a fist futilely against the thick comforter.

It barely wrinkles the fabric, makes no sound. The two of you falling silent, stepping gingerly around the things you both have kept to yourselves, despite the years together.

“Then why don’t you?”

You shake your head, rubbing a hand over your face. All the exhaustion of the past few weeks of traveling, from the past few months of testimonials and tributes suddenly piles up on your chest. An entire season’s worth of weariness drags like stones against your skin.

You’ve never seen Rome as a burden, only a dream, a promise. But it weighs on you just the same.

“I can’t play anywhere else.”

“Then why the fuck are you in London?” he repeats, stubborn as ever.

“Because maybe here, I could...I don’t know, do something on the sidelines. Be useful.”

“And you can’t be useful here, for us?” There’s a fair bit of accusation in the question, like you’re betraying him personally somehow. Maybe you are, you can’t seem to figure out anything for sure.

Maybe you could be useful in Rome, pacing the sidelines while the knobbly-kneed, scrawny players you’d watched grow take your place on the pitch. Maybe you could watch them slot into your position, move with the same fervent passion the crest demands of all its players. Maybe, one day, you could watch someone wear your shirt and feel something beyond the way loss bludgeons you between the ribs.

“I don’t know.”

“Figure it out,” Daniele orders. You say nothing because you’re half convinced he’s hung up on you.

“I’m trying,” you confess eventually.

“Call me when you do,” he sighs, quietly resigned. “Or find me when you get home. Just...whatever. I’m available.”

His reluctant tenderness like a reassuring hand against your chest, reminding you of what else is left to return to.

“I’ll be home soon,” you promise.

 

~

_June, 2013._

 

You don't know if Ilary let him in on her way out or if he used his key. But Daniele trudges into your kitchen, hands jammed into his pocket, and refuses to meet your eyes. His hair's growing long again, sticking up around his temples, and his beard's starting to look a bit haggard. Every bit of him speaks to exhaustion, like the simple act of holding himself up is wearing him out.

You carefully cut the sandwich in half, slide his plate to him across the top of the counter. He stares at it like he didn't even realize he had ended up at your house.

"Eat," you command, taking a big bite of your own. It's not great, but you don't think either of you care much about food right now. Briefly, you wonder if you should be drunk for this conversation, glance at the bottle of chianti Ilary had opened earlier.

"You want to be drunk for this?"

He shrugs, then rips off a piece of the bread and shoves it into his mouth.

"Can you eat like a person, Daniele?" you chide fondly while you pour him some wine.

"You're the one feeding your guests at the counter and pouring red wine into coffee mugs," he counters, something lifting with the teasing tone.

"You're not a guest," you remind him, placing the mug beside his sandwich. He gulps down a mouthful, teeth stained richly red when he momentarily smirks at you.

You sip slowly from yours, finish the sandwich in a few more bites. The two of you exchanging sidelong glances, egging the other to break the silence. Finally, he clears his throat and blows out a breath.

“I don’t lie to you,” he bites out, staring at the crust as he fiddles with the bread.

“I know.”

“I’m considering it this time,” he confirms, glances up to meet your eyes finally.

“Why?”

Something hideous twists its way around your throat, makes the next mouthful of wine scrape like sandpaper going down. It drops like a stone into your belly, your breath held until he answers.

“I wonder, all the time.”

Your eyes narrow accusatorily at him.

“You think I don’t wonder? That, what, I’m not capable of imagining the possibilities? I know what’s out there,” you reprimand, as gently as you can.

“I don’t want to spend my life wondering. I want to _know_. Maybe that football loses something in translation, that Manchester’s exactly as garbage as it seems. Maybe I find out the world is shit. But I want to know for sure. I don’t…” he trails off, scratches the back of his neck guiltily. Suddenly, he looks all of twelve years old, expecting a lecture from a furious parent. The rapidly rising resentment flattens out of you in one fell swoop. All you feel is...disappointment.

“At least have the courage to finish,” you accuse. He blinks away quickly, almost fast enough to hide the hurt in his eyes, but you’ve seen, you know.

“I don’t want to choose Rome simply because it’s all I’ve ever known.”

Your laugh rings hollow, somehow louder in the stillness of the silent house. Slowly, as if you’re moving through quicksand, you shake your head. Your hands fall to your sides, loose and vulnerable.

“You should do what you believe is right,” you hear yourself tell him politely. He looks your way, like he’s looking at you from a great length, trying to make sense of your features.

“But?” he wonders aloud. It’s the smallest you’ve ever heard his voice, like it’s folded in on itself.

“The captain’s armband will not wait for you.”

He jerks his head downward, half-flinch, half-nod. You pretend not to notice that the hand lifting the wine to his mouth is less than steady.

Two big gulps and he finally manages,

“Will you forgive me for it?”

Even underneath the impulse to punch him full in the mouth, deeper and more ingrained into the core of you, lies the need to comfort. His pain a palpable pang, crawling along your skin, digging grooves in until the emotions rolls through you in waves.

“Yes.” You give him honesty, even though he may not deserve it.

He drinks again and you wonder how he plans to go home if he keeps going.

“Will you speak to me again?”

You nod, just once.

He nods in return, his head tipped down for another moment. You stare at the back of his neck, and the rush of memories takes you at the knees. The way your mouth feels pressing against the staircase of his spine, the curve of your hand squeezing around the nape of his neck. The way he buries his face into your shoulder sometimes, like he’s trying to tuck himself away. You have never learned how to let anything go.

“Will I be allowed to come back?” he asks.

But you hear, _Can I come home again?_

 

~

 

July 12, 2017

 

In Madrid, at the behest of Rosella Sensi, you agree to a single meeting at a cafe. He arrives late, and before you’ve even managed to look up at him, he plops down into the chair across from you, rips off his sunglasses, and thrusts his tablet in your direction.

“You have to see this,” he announces, handing it over to you before motioning to the waitress. He rambles off some orders in Spanish, of which you catch only _huevos, tortilla_ , and _Cava_.

“Watch, watch,” he demands, waving in the direction of the screen. You press play, and the quality’s shit, the announcer speaking in rapid Turkish. The action’s slow to start and Monchi reaches across the table, moves the tracker until it’s halfway through.

“You’ll know when you see,” he declares, graciously thanking the waitress when she arrives with the drinks.

You nearly miss it because he’s just a slip of a thing, runs gracelessly on coltish legs, more hair than anything else. But he runs straight through two defenders twice his bulk, slips the ball around a third, and somehow manages to meet it just in time to sweep it into the net. There are kids at Trigoria that have impressed you, but this? You try to catch your breath as Monchi hands you one of the glasses.

“Who is he?”

“His name’s Cengiz Ünder, and he plays at Başakşehir, for now.”

“Where will he play after now?” you oblige him. He begins slicing the _tortilla_ into neat sections, piling various foods onto your plate without so much asking your wishes.

“There’s a club called AS Roma who are willing to make an offer for him.”

You nod knowingly, biting at the safest looking thing on the plate, something covered with Iberian ham.

“They’ll take care of him, make sure he has an easier time settling in than at other clubs.” For all of Daniele’s gruffness or Radja’s penchant for aggression, they’re balanced by their unwavering loyalty for the whole of the team. They’ll protect this kid if he ends up there.

“He hasn’t signed,” Monchi announces mid-bite.

“Why not?” you ask, brow furrowing before you swallow down a mouthful of Cava.

“Because it’s over a thousand kilometers between Istanbul and Rome. And with one of his childhood heroes having just retired, he’s not convinced it would be worth that distance.”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin and lean back in your chair to meet his eyes. He grins at you, shameless, before biting into a _croqueta_.

“How often do people tell you no?” You’re willing to bet money on his answer.

“All the time,” he quips, before finishing it off. After he swallows, he adds, “‘But ask me how many of those answers stay no's.”

You drink to keep from smiling, sure it’ll only encourage him. For the first time since he’s sat down, he’s quiet, eats everything on his plate going in a clockwise direction. When he finishes, he folds his napkin up again, places it on the plate, and leans back, arms folded.

“My first season playing for Sevilla, we were relegated,” he begins, clearing his throat. “Mind you, I wasn’t good, always saw the plays better in my head than when I tried to make them in life. But I stayed. It was the only place I ever wanted to be.”

You nod in empathy.

“30 years is a whole life.” His hands come to rest on the table, fingers threaded together as he peers across at you. “But, I told the board I was leaving days after you announced your retirement.”

You press your lips together to keep your mouth from falling open, sure you don’t deserve whatever he’s about to say next.

“That’s who you are to Rome. You’re the one who drives us to believe.”

“You believe in Rome. _I_ believe in Rome,” you remind him.

The smile grows across his face in increments, like he’s found a mistake you’ve made on the chess board.

“Then come work with me. We’ll figure out the specifics later. Because it doesn’t matter what it is you do, only that you do it, Francesco Totti. Just...come back and help me build something worth believing in.”

Like a pinprick to the side of a balloon, his words feel like release, relief, delight, hope bubbling up inside of you. You cover your eyes with a hand and laugh, feeling suddenly absurd for the months of torment. You wonder how it could be so simple, so easy to feel useful again. He doesn’t interrupt, lets you pretend you’re scrubbing your face of anything but a thin trail of tears.

But eventually, you look at him, and find yourself believing too.

“Yes.”

 

~

July 19, 2017.

 

Monchi’s waiting for you at the entrance, hands you a coffee and offers you a soft smile.

You’ve been to Trigoria before when it was mostly quiet, mostly empty. But still, the sharp click of dress on the pavement leading to the entrance, the meticulously fitted suit clinging to your body makes it feel foreign.

“He got on the plane just a few minutes ago, so he should be here in two hours. We’re setting up a meeting with him tomorrow, and then someone will help him find an apa--”

You jolt when a kid bumps into you, running inside. He glances back mid-stride, both hands raised apologetically, before he stops for a second. Recognition dawns suddenly, eyes going wide in his small face.

“ _Mi dispiace_!”

He holds up his hands again, then sneaks off the rest of the way.

“He’s going to tell all his friends about that,” Monchi informs you, scrolling through his phone for alerts about something or the other.

A small kernel of pride settles inside your chest, glows like an ember illuminating your heart. You nod, and take the first step forward.

**Author's Note:**

> [placeholder for when i have more than four hours of sleep and can put in endnotes...eventually!]
> 
> thanks to everyone for reading! i have more totti feelings than i ever wanted or expected, and i hope you suffer from them now too! comments are much treasured [heart emoji]


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